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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29295777">Ain't I Right</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuki1014o/pseuds/Yuki1014o'>Yuki1014o</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Centricide (Webseries)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(2) NAP violations, 3+1 Things, Acespec Commie, Arospec Ancap, Love/Hate, M/M, economy buddies, half platonic, you don't need to know anything about economics to read this</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 06:41:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,758</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29295777</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuki1014o/pseuds/Yuki1014o</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Three times Commie and Ancap metaphorically bash heads, and one time they don't.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Anarcho-Capitalist/Communist (Centricide), capcom - Relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>83</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Ain't I Right</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>named after <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0XxYwWg7F8I">Ain't I Right</a> by Marty Robbins.</p><p>*Shorting: the act of borrowing it a stock, immediately selling it to someone, and then paying up later at the stock's future price in hope of the stock's value being lower than what you originally borrowed and sold it for. </p><p>I haven't edited or proofread and <b>there'll most likely be typos for a day or two</b></p><p>Pevelis, I hope you aren't disappointed.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>1.</b>
</p><p>“Stop.” </p><p>Ancap glances up, tilts his head. He would really prefer not to have some sort of confrontation right now. He’s only just barely woken up, after all! And while messing with the tacky twenty first century soviet is always fun, he hasn't even drunk his coffee yet. It’s, what, six twenty? For once, Ancap beat Commie to the kitchen. The granite is cold through the fine fabric of his suit as he leans forward over the counter. “Stop what?”</p><p>Commie glares at his hand, at the cup sitting on the center-island. “Gold flakes. You are sprinkling <em>gold flakes</em> in your coffee.”</p><p>Oh. It’s going to be another one of <em>those</em> times. Ancap lets the rest of the gold flakes pinched in his hand fall into his coffee. They look very pretty against the toffee color. Very glittery and gold. “Don’t worry, it’s edible gold!”</p><p>The authoritarian looks physically pained. “That is not on point.”</p><p>“You act as if I care about your point.” Must Commie always but his head into other peoples’ business? <em>Honestly</em>.</p><p>“There are people starving on street, Ancap,” the Bolshevik tries, again.</p><p>Ancap shrugs, takes a sip of his coffee. It has a refined sort of taste. Luxury beans. Clover honey. Metallic gold.</p><p>Commie twitches, and his fists ball up, but Ancap only finds amusement in it. They both know what happens if Commie violates the NAP. Ancap is currently carrying six guns. It’s always interesting to see the other get so riled up and <em>upset</em> about these things. It’s...interesting, yeah.</p><p>Invisible Hand, that sort of caring must be exhausting to live with.</p><p>“There are people <em>dying</em>,” Commie says. “Genuinely <em>dying</em>, because they don’t have food or shelter or healthcare or—”</p><p>“I <em>genuinely</em> don’t care. If they need money then they should get a job.”</p><p>Commie’s colors darken and increase in saturation so quick it almost hurts even through the sunglasses. His face screws up and his knuckles go white, and Ancap almost wants to offer him a seat. “Job that exploits them for every bit of profit that it can extract? Job like ones at Indian Apple factories? A job where they’ll be paid, what, <em>seven</em><em> dollars </em>in <em>month?</em>”</p><p>Hmm. That rings a bell. What was that abo...ah! Ancap snaps his fingers. “I remember that one! Those workers really should’ve negotiated better, I wonder if they had other jobs lined up before burning down the factory? It was stupid of them. Not to mention, a violation of the NAP. Honestly, they <em>agreed</em> to work there!”</p><p>“Dear Marx. You think that is <em>acceptable?</em>” Commie asks, rhetorically, voice rising in undiluted revolutionary rage. It’s...a unique kind of experience, to be so <em>close</em> to the other man while being in no real danger. Why, they haven't been this close since WWII! (Commie is such a <em>stickler</em> to the rules, and the rules here are <em>don’t infight</em>.) “Kukak have you any <em>idea</em> plight you inflict onto workers? Any idea <em>at all!?</em> You’re here—here <em>drinking gold</em> and people are <em>jumping out windows</em> in factories!”</p><p>Ancap smiles, and feels rather detached. “That’s why there’s suicide netting!”</p><p>“Or you could <em>pay them living wage</em> or <em>improve working conditions</em>, Kulak!” Commie is red as his soviet flags, and there’s a strange kind of expression on his face, like distant heartbreak, like teary eyes, and—ah. Ancap...really worked him up, huh? Huh.</p><p>It’s a little less funny now. It could be dangerous. And, admittedly...Ancap feels...bad. It isn’t a sharp sort of pain, and it doesn't ache in his chest, and his sympathy does not go out to the supposed ‘worker’ that Commie prattles on about, but rather…</p><p>For Commie himself.</p><p>The Bolshevik brings with him a consistent combination of amusement and fascination, an ability to make Ancap <em>feel </em>(anger,annoyance, indigence, surprise, a kind of strange excitement that shows itself whenever he sees Commie looking at stocks). And now he’s brought a new one. Something—not quite <em>guilt</em>, but something similar. Ancap identifies the root as distress at Commie’s sadness. And he wants it to <em>go away</em>.</p><p>De-escalate, then.</p><p>“Hey hey,.” He raises his hands and softens his tone. “It’s not that I <em>want</em> people to starve, it’s not as if I assign no value to happiness or people being hurt—I’m relatively pacifist! War is horrible and outdated! Violence is barbaric! But you can’t criticize me for <em>not paying enough</em> for <em>voluntary work</em> when your regimes consistently mandate concentration camps.”</p><p>“<em>Oh no</em>,” Commie says, “<em>Gualgs</em>. So sad. Projects made to serve public interest and worked by <em>criminals</em>. That is <em>such</em> good comparison to wage slavery where innocent worker has no choice between being exploited and dying. Financial freedom is freedom.”</p><p>And that—that actually irritates Ancap. Actually grates on his nerves in a way that Ancom and Nazi are never quite able to achieve. “Don’t <em>you</em> talk to <em>me</em> about <em>freedom</em>.”</p><p>“Then don’t <em>you</em> talk to <em>me</em> about ethics!”</p><p>This is not de-escalation. Ancap let his emotions snap. Values are important, but they are decidedly not useful right now. Petty arguing with the two-faced authoritarian statist is not <em>productive</em>. “We can talk about economic theory and ethics forever,” he says, “but discussing it now is useless. We haven’t even had breakfast yet!”</p><p>“There are people <em>dying </em>out there,” Commie hisses, “you—you must have sold your heart away for cheap profit centuries ago.”</p><p>This is the thing about Commie—he’s so hard to <em>manage</em>. All it takes to temper Ancom is some sort of cultural virtue signal. All it takes to distract Nazi is a monologue about how the free market brings luxuries and lets people rise above one another on their own merits. Weeds out the unfit, in a sense. (And Ancap <em>does</em> believe in a system that lets the smart and capable flourish—he just differs from Nazi in the sense that those traits are defined by <em>race</em> or <em>gender</em> or whatever other arbitrary line. And if that seems uncaring of him…</p><p>Well. It isn’t his job to care for the disabled. They’ll be able to forge their own path, they don’t need his pity, and if they <em>can’t</em> make their way, well… There will always be people like Commie, people that care <em>too much</em>. Charities can handle it.)</p><p>So, Commie is hard to calm; always has been.</p><p>“Not for <em>cheap!</em>” Ancap says, comically drawing his hand to his chest like he’s been hurt. “My heart would be quite expensive, thank you!”</p><p>The statist twitches. “Stop making <em>joke</em> of this.”</p><p>And, because, despite his best instincts, Ancap has always been a creature of pleasure and amusement, he pokes back with: “But I can’t help but find it funny!”</p><p>Commie’s hands ball up and his jaw clenches and his colors burn brighter than his communist stars, and Ancap thinks for a moment that the authoritarian is going to reach over the counter and punch him. But he—does not. Instead, he gives Ancap one more disdainful look and stomps out of the kitchen. A door slams.</p><p>…Huh.</p><p>Oh, Ancap doesn't like that feeling. Doesn't like that at <em>all</em>.</p><p>He should charge Commie for the potential damages that come with slamming doors.</p><p>
  <b>2.</b>
</p><p>There is someone knocking on Commie’s door, and he knows precisely who it is. There’s only one person is this house that bothers themselves with knocking and actually <em>means</em> it—Commie knocks thrice as courtesy and opens regardless of (sometimes in <em>spite</em> of) answer, Nazi quietly slips his way into rooms, and Ancom slams through thresholds with complete disregard of anything resembling tact.</p><p>(There is Guevara, too, but he spends all his time alone in his room, so.)</p><p>That only leaves Ancap.</p><p>Commie pinches the bride of his nose, pauses his fingers on the keyboard of the shiny new laptop that Ancap somehow slipped into his custody, and turns around in his office chair. He can <em>feel</em> the incoming headache. Ancap’s incessant knocking does not stop.</p><p>“Don’t enter by more than three steps,” Commie says.</p><p>The door immediately swings open, and Ancap enters in an erratic sort of flurry. Exaggerated expression, large eye-catching movements, large strides—bending the rules so close they come to breaking. A little over halfway across Commie’s red carpet, he halts abruptly. <em>Three steps. </em>That carried him much farther than Commie would’ve preferred.</p><p>“Red!” Ancap cries, wide gesture, hand sweeping past Commie’s eye with all the insidious showmanship the capitalist carries around so easily. “Commie Commie Commie, my friend, <em>why—</em>” there’s a strange kind of tone in Ancap’s voice, he notices, something like panic, “is <em>your </em>company doing well!?”</p><p>Commie blinks. “How?”</p><p>“Well, Red!” Ancap says, talking with his hands, tapping the back of his shiny black shoes dully against the carpet. It is a lot of movement, and a lot of visual intake, but it isn’t exactly <em>unusual</em>. Ancap carries himself around like a one-man magic show, glittering and bright and utterly <em>fake</em>. But there is—a strange kind of trueness to it, this time. His hair is frazzled and curled and his manners seem perhaps the most natural Commie has ever seen them, and that is...<em>strange</em>. “It’s succeeding! Consumers are buying! Talking! You took word of mouth with ease! The stocks are going up! Red, your stocks are going up, <em>why</em>. <em>You</em> of all things shouldn’t—”</p><p>“Wait,” Commie interrupts, brows furrowing, “true, да, but why do you <em>care?</em> It is none of your business, да?”</p><p>“Not my <em>business? </em>Everything is business! And I was <em>betting</em> that—”</p><p>“<em>Oh</em>,” he says, and then—kind of wants to laugh. It’s an almost vindictive kind of amusement. “Kulak, did you short my stocks under the assumption that it would fail <em>simply</em> because it is being run by myself?”</p><p>Ancap stills. “Stop <em>smiling.</em>”</p><p>“Have you?”</p><p>“<em>Yes!</em>” Ancap says, stillness disappearing The kulak’s eyes look something close to teary. “Yes and it’s <em>terrible. </em>I’ve lost millions, Red, <em>millions! </em>You—get into a scandal!”</p><p>He sniffs. Ancap brings a floral kind of scent with him, and is slips into the old-paper must of Commie’s room. “Got what you deserved. Short selling—betting on the failure of people. <em>Betting</em> on losing jobs and stock price going down, bad outcome—there is something wrong with that.”</p><p>“Oh don’t go <em>on </em>with this,” Ancap bemoans. “Shortselling has its place. Who do you think discovers bubbles, investigates companies more thoroughly than government ever could or would or <em>should?</em> Who do you think has financial incentive to find flaws with a corporation? Shortsellers! Commie this is the rhythm of the market, but that aside, please fail I’m losing so much money. Like—say you hate woman! Or are racist! Or—maybe just say a slur!”</p><p>This is stupid, and ridiculous, and Commie leans back in his chair and snorts. “Only slurs I say are against capitalist pigs.”</p><p>Ancap makes some sort of unintelligible sound. “My <em>money</em>.”</p><p>“I am doing <em>precisely</em> what you said,” Commie informs, entirely unsympathetic. “I am doing stock market and company and money-making. Very bad, the whole process, but I am doing <em>well</em>.”</p><p>The kulak sniffs and wipes at his eyes, as though the tears hadn’t been manufactured. “Ugh.”</p><p>Commie crosses his arms and raises a brow. The chair is old and peeling. Let it not be said that he is one for luxuries. Well—unless it benefits the party. But he can function with an old chair. “Are you over?”</p><p>“No no, you’re right,” Ancap says, although that doesn't link up to Commie’s words very easily at all. “This is a result of my own bad betting. I assumed too much. You...are doing <em>unexpectedly</em> well. It’s ridiculous, really!”</p><p>Oh. That’s...a little unexpected. What’s his angle at this? “...I don’t desire your approval.”</p><p>“Of course not!” Ancap says, and smiles, although Commie can’t see if it reaches his eyes. “You’re doing <em>terribly</em> well on your own, but have you considered that you could climb <em>higher?</em> Achieve <em>more?</em>”</p><p>It’s that snake-oil tone, the kind that puts Commie on instant guard. “Cut to chase.”</p><p>“You’re all for this...” Ancap makes a somewhat vague gesture, voice perfectly persuasive, “<em>collaboration</em> thing. This notion that people are better together. That people do thing in collectives. I’m not entirely against that! Collaboration <em>is</em> helpful! You may be doing well now, Commie, but work with me and you’ll do better.”</p><p>“I am not working with <em>you</em>.”</p><p>Ancap draws a hand to his chest like he’s been hurt. “So cruel! You reject deals? You know, you can’t prove that capitalism is flaws and unclimbable if you don’t <em>do it</em> properly! Or, perhaps, could it be that you would reject your very own united mindset?”</p><p>Commie twitches. Ancap’s very voice grates on his nerves. Collaboration. He does not want to collaborate with that literal manifestation of greed and unbound capitalism. What ridiculous accusations.</p><p>Ancap is looking at him expectantly. How completely ridiculous.</p><p>“...How...<em>kind</em> of deal?”</p><p>He can <em>see</em> the victorious shift in Ancap’s posture. “My friend, it’s really quite simple! I help with platforming and you help me break even on this miserable failure of a shorting attempt.”</p><p>Commie purses his lips and stays silent—but between the two of them, Ancap is far more experienced, and he just grins at him and beckons for answer.</p><p>Contracts, word games, delicate webs of capital and ownership and incentive. It’s an infinitely complex puzzle, an insidious kind of system. And Commie—while he does <em>understand</em> it, it does not come quite so easily to him as it does Ancap. For obvious reasons.</p><p>“...Maybe,” he concedes, and thins his lips at the smirk that flashes over Ancap’s expression. “But carefully! Not long term! Very full of caution!”</p><p>“Details details,” Ancap tsks, and then snaps his fingers. “You have lined paper in here? Somewhere in all this...poor people stuff?”</p><p>“My room is <em>perfectly</em> alright,” Commie mutters. He <em>likes</em> his room. Carpeted floor, prettily patterned cloth on each wall, soviet posters tacked over them. There are bookshelves packed with all kinds of important literature. His desk and floor it littered with stacks of bound notes and open books with crisp red annotation. The warm tone of his ceiling light casts everything in a comfortable kind of glow. “I do have lined paper. Obviously.”</p><p>“Wonderful! Lets get right to it. Lets see...hmm. Red, can I sit on your bed? Sitting on the floor is for peasants.”</p><p>Commie rubs the bridge of his nose. Ancap is going to whine and complain if he doesn't agree. “So long as you don’t...dig through anything.”</p><p>“Of course not,” Ancap says, and he’s uncharacteristically serious. “Unlike the rest of you, I have respect for peoples’ privacy.”</p><p>That puts Commie at ease, even though it really shouldn’t.</p><p>He riffles through his desk and brings out lined paper. Ancap carries mechanical pens wherever he goes and is already clicking at the end of one when Commie comes over. He hesitates a moment, the capitalist cocks his head at him. Uncomfortable.</p><p>Commie slips onto the bed, stiff mattress giving just a little below him, and Ancap—and Ancap leans over and presses his leg against Commie’s, and it takes everything he has not to tense. Because the other is—Ancap is greedy and selfish and uncaring and <em>lustful</em>, and they are in bed, close together, in private, and he does not <em>want</em> that. Despite his best efforts, something must show in his body language because Ancap stops and stills and withdraws.</p><p>“If I get closer, will it be violating the NAP?”</p><p>“Just don’t.”</p><p>Ancap peers at him curiously, but doesn't press.</p><p>“Right,” he says, “more importantly...”</p><p>So they work it out. Ancap talks in circles, with hard implications and soft urging, and it’s always a little dizzying to follow. He makes offers and Commie says <em>a little more</em>, and then he rewords it entirely with a same meaning and Commie says <em>same thing</em>. And when Commie tries to counter-negotiate, Ancap says <em>not good enough! Not good enough! Not good enough!</em></p><p>Commie hits a hard wall at every turn, but Ancap makes it look soft, makes it look just pliant enough to keep him from calling the whole affair off. And it’s such absolute garbage, but it also <em>works</em>.</p><p>By the end, Commie has a headache, is only a step away from snapping, is so irritated that he’s practically brimming with it, and the worst part is that there’s a small part of him saying he <em>got a good deal</em>.</p><p>Ancap is smirking at him. “Nice doing business, Red. Or—I suppose it’s business partner, now.”</p><p>The last strands of Commie’s patience are fraying. “нет. Do not call me that. <em>No</em>.”</p><p>“Of course,” Ancap corrects, “most <em>esteemed</em> business partner.”</p><p>“нет!”</p><p>“Yes!”</p><p>Commie physically twitches. Two can play at this. “Okay, <em>Comrade</em>.”</p><p>Ancap just smiles wider. “Wink wink.”</p><p>Dear <em>Marx</em>. Have patience. Commie runs through socialist theory in his head. It is not very calming, even though it should be. The irritation stays hot and white and near <em>boiling</em>. How can he hit back without it being physical? “I’m not signing.”</p><p>“<em>What?</em>”</p><p>Hah. “You thought you guaranteed me? No. I don’t want to work with you in first place.”</p><p>“But that’s such a bad business decision!”</p><p>Commie rolls his eyes. “<em>Bad business</em>. This system of capital is corrupt from its roots. What does losing some pointless paper hurt me?”</p><p>“<em>Pointless</em> <em>paper</em>,” Ancap cries. “You’re going to make me cry!”</p><p>“Good,” he says, “please cry. Cry from afterlife when I abolish money. It won’t matter.”</p><p>“<em>Abolish money</em>,” Ancap mutters, sounding genuinely distressed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Money is—do you even <em>know</em> the history of money? Currency is a medium for which to exchange things, and it took <em>so long</em> to get to paper money, and now we’re at crypto, and Commie it’s <em>beautiful</em>.”</p><p>“Meaningless bits.”</p><p>Ancap puts his head in his hands. “<em>Communists</em>.”</p><p>“Go cry,” Commie says, feeling rather pleasant with himself. “I think I will go make snack. You can even have some, if you ask! <em>Comrade</em>.”</p><p>Ancap makes some sort of pained sound into his hands. It is half joking, so Commie doesn't feel that bad. it’s rather playful, really. “None of your trash food. Leave me to my mourning, <em>business partner.</em>”</p><p>
  <b>3.</b>
</p><p>Ancap stretches himself out over the bed and yawns. Commie glances at him. The statist is dressed...lightly. His coat is hung over the back of Ancap’s desk chair, and his boots have been left at the door, and that leaves him in a rosy colored dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.</p><p>Commie’s skin is a weathered and scarred and colored like cream, and Ancap wonders what he would have to pay to kiss it. Taste it. Not in a soft or <em>romantic</em> sort of way, definitely not, but in a <em>wanting</em> way. Everything has a price, everything has a value it can be exchanged for, and while Ancap doesn't think Commie would take currency, he might take some other exchange.</p><p>If he can get this far, after all, then <em>surely</em> he’ll be able to find something that Commie wants badly enough in return. Everything is a trade. <em>This</em> is a trade. Commie lets down his boarders too easily. Nazi and Ancom both intrude in the Marxist’s room whenever they feel like it. And thus, Commie has come to Ancap’s private space for shelter. (<em>No one </em>intrudes on Ancap’s space; not Ancom, not Nazi, not Guevara, not even Commie.) And in unspoken return, Ancap gets to study Commie up close.</p><p>Ancap reaches out slowly. Commies doesn’t shift away. Is that a sign of trust? It’s hard to tell. The blatancy his emotion comes in...bursts. Ancap walks his fingers down the bare of Commie’s skin. The statist’s eyes follow his fingers, pupils just a little dilated, slight pinch in his brow. But his body isn’t tensed. What...<em>progress</em>.</p><p>(It <em>is</em> rather nice to know the authoritarian finally trusts that he won’t <em>actually</em> break any boundaries. The instant Commie indicates that he’s uncomfortable with an intrusion to his space, Ancap will withdraw.)</p><p>“How are...” Commie is frowning at him, but it isn’t the uncomfortable kind, it’s the puzzled kind. Amusing. “What are you doing?”</p><p>“I’m touching your arm.”</p><p>Commie frowns harder at him. “да, but <em>why?</em>”</p><p>Ancap shrugs, though it’s a kind of awkward movement from his position lying on the bed, only one arm propping him up. “Why does anyone do anything? Because I want to.”</p><p>“<em>Why?</em>”</p><p>Of all the extremists, Ancap wants things most deeply. Most obsessively. Just—<em>more and more and more</em>. His want doesn’t manifest so much in the big picture sense. Not in the utopian pictures that everyone else paints (although, he wants that, too. Of course he does. He’s an ideology born from humanity, and what human doesn't want a world in which even the most disadvantaged individual can climb to the world’s peak on their own merit? On their own capability? On what they <em>bring</em> to the world?)</p><p>Rather, his want most manifests as an eternal fixation on <em>things</em>. And everything is a ‘thing’. Shiny new suits are a thing, houses are a thing, islands are a thing, Commie is a <em>thing</em>.</p><p>“Does it matter much?” Ancap asks, rhetorically. But...honesty <em>is</em> a useful tool. “I like to watch your reactions. You’re very hard to observe up close, you know! And besides,” he withdraws his hand, lays it flat against the blankets, “I want to have you sometime. If I want that, then I have to find something you want in return!”</p><p>Commie stares at him, assessing, judging, sharp eyes, and thin lipped. Ancap smiles lazily back.</p><p>“That shouldn’t...Kulak, relationships aren’t commodities. Shouldn’t be...” The statist lifts his hands form the pages of his book and makes a somewhat vague motion. “Shouldn’t be... aren’t even-handed mechanical exchanges. Exactly.”</p><p>“Oh not like <em>that</em>,” Ancap mock-gasps, “no no, never! You’re a fascinating and <em>infinitely</em> entertaining creature but not much more.”</p><p>“...Ah,” says Commie. “Well I can’t—I don’t...you know, да?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Ancap answers, breezily, “not exactly hard to figure out. I match on the other scale!”</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>Ancap peers at him curiously. Can’t quite pin the feeling on his face. Something...disappointed? Melancholy? Negative. “Is that—”</p><p>Something crashes, so loud and sudden it almost startles Ancap off the bed. Commie’s head immediately snaps towards the door. That sounded <em>bad</em>. Invisible Hand, are they breaking his private property out there?</p><p>“<em>FUCK OFF FASCIST!</em>”</p><p>“<em>I’LL FUCK OFF WHEN YOU’RE RIGHTFULLY </em><em>SEND TO A DAMN CAMP OR </em><em>DEPORTED INTO AFRICA OR WHATEVER COLORED SHITHOLE!</em>”</p><p>“<em>OH YEAH WELL—</em>”</p><p>Ancap tunes them out. Commie sighs deeply and rubs at the bride of his nose. And, for a moment, he looks positively exhausted. His body slumps and his attention scatters, and Ancap find himself documenting every detail. There are circles beneath his eyes, and the hair that Ancap can see beneath the ushanka is tangled, and it’s just...well.</p><p>Huh. What’s this? Pity? Something close. Why? Hmm. Product of attachment. Why would he be attached? A combination of things? Probably. Something to thoroughly analyze later.</p><p>Commie snaps his book closed between his legs and lifts off the bed.</p><p>“Hey wait,” Ancap slips his legs over the edge and sits up straight, “wait, wait—where are you going?”</p><p>The statist raises a brow at him and takes his stupid trench coat off the back of Ancap’s office chair. “To break that up, clearly.”</p><p>“What? But—we—” <em>I thought</em> <em>we were having a moment</em>. Ancap wants Commie to stay longer. He was <em>enjoying </em>this. “Why would you bother? They’ll temper down soon anyway. They won’t break <em>that</em> much, and I’ll charge them later.”</p><p>“Order in team, Kulak,” he says, “have got to work it out. Cooperation.” Pause, pinched lips, worry tugging at the Marxist’s expression. “They are going to hurt themselves.”</p><p>That isn’t Commie’s concern. Shouldn’t be Commie’s concern. Shouldn’t be getting in the way of their time together.</p><p>But the statist is already slipping his arms through the sleeves of his stupid coat, and Ancap is already letting this slip through his fingers. Commie turns around, and starts walking away. <em>Wait</em>, Ancap thinks, then—</p><p>—reaches out and catches the fabric of Commie’s coat.</p><p>The Marxist stills. Ancap freezes. His fingers feel numb. That was a violation of the NAP. He has no right to physically restrict the free movement of an individual.</p><p>Ancap snaps his hand back like he’s been burned.</p><p>Commie twists around and stares. He looks—caught off guard. Not angry, or aggressive, or like he’s taken offense. “...Kulak?”</p><p><em>Nothing</em>, Ancap doesn’t say, because that would be stupid. If he’s made this situation then he might as well make use of it.</p><p>“<em>Laissez faire</em>,” he responds, “let it be. It isn’t your responsibility.”</p><p>That gets a snort. “If I don’t, who will?”</p><p>Irritation licks at Ancap’s fingers and curls them just a little inward. It’s <em>this</em>, this part of Commie that so often leads to oppressive regimes. That takes autonomy away from people. And Ancap really does despise the way Commie dresses it up, <em>believes it to be</em>, something good. “Not everyone can be your responsibility.”</p><p>Commie’s lips thin. “If I have capability to help then it is not virtue, is not something <em>extra—</em>it is moral obligation.”</p><p>“So, what,” Ancap says, “will you help every single poor person? Every person at a disadvantage? Every person that cries and suffers? Every person globally? Every—”</p><p>“<em>Yes</em>,” Commie says, English, hard-edged, cold toned, and Ancap has no retort. “да. If I can I will, and someday I can, and some day I will. And there is nothing you or any other pig can do to stop me.”</p><p>And that’s just typical, isn’t it? Commie feels with a brightly burning intensity that Ancap <em>wants</em>, <em>envies</em>, almost <em>admires</em>. It’s a kind sentiment, he can acknowledge. Not a realistic goal, and the end point would lead into authoritarian oppression and absolute loss of freedom. It would stamp out the free market, would crush the very root of human spirit, but it is a goal that Ancap can, on a technical level, understand the appeal of.</p><p>(Petty emotion.)</p><p>(Everyone would really be much happier if they just felt like he does.)</p><p>(It’s such a brilliant thing, being able to <em>choose</em> which feelings to experience. Well, <em>mostly</em> choose. There is no such thing as complete predictability. He did not <em>entirely</em> choose to feel this way about Commie, but even now, he can <em>decide</em> whether to let this attachment flourish. It’s an interesting kind of feeling, after all.)</p><p>Damn it.</p><p>“Let it be,” he says, again, but Commie is quite clearly not persuaded.</p><p>“нет.”</p><p>This time, when Commie walks over to the door, slips into his boots, and leaves, Ancap does not stop him.</p><p>
  <b>+1</b>
</p><p>Commie is not entirely sure what influenced the weather to turn so soft and spring-like today, but he appreciates it. Spending time in his room and reading theory is always nice, but he dreads to become like Nazi who resides almost exclusively at his screen on inside his room.</p><p>So, yeah. The weather is nice and Ancap balcony is...alright. He’s sitting at a circular table pushed against the railing, and a sun umbrella shades it enough so that Commie can easily see the screen of his computer.</p><p>It’d be quite perfect, except Commie feels white hot with anger. Really? <em>Really?</em> He reloads the page. Same message. What a joke. <em>Volatile market</em>, <em>for your consideration</em>. He—he shouldn’t be surprised, really. There is no such thing as a ‘free’ market, but this is some of the most blatant market manipulation that he has ever seen</p><p>Commie doesn’t even <em>use</em> Robinhood and he’s wrathful.</p><p>Someone whistles. “Oh you look <em>pissed</em>. What’s worked you into a tizzy this time? Still hung up over the collapse of your authoritarian union? One of your dear comrades resorting to eating rats? Or maybe you fell for some shallow emotional appeal again? Honestly—”</p><p>“Shut up, Kulak.” Commie looks up and glares. Ancap pauses, steps fully onto the balcony. Sunlight gleams on the edges of his stupid sunglasses that Commie <em>still</em> hasn’t seen beneath. “Market is <em>not</em> free. Stocks—you’ve seen Robinhood? They—”</p><p>“Oh!” Ancap gasps bringing his hand to his chest. He leans forward just a bit. “Red, you’re paying attention to the stock market? Having opinions and feelings over it? Caring about something <em>useful?</em> I’m so proud! You’re going to kill me with <em>joy!</em>”</p><p>Commie squints at the other ideology. He’s dressed in a fancy new suit and looks practically brimming with undirected energy and there’s a crooked smile on his face, and the strangest thing is that this excitement—it feels genuine.</p><p>Thinking Ancap is genuine about <em>anything </em>is dangerous, because ninety nine out of a hundred he’ll be dishonest, but over the years Commie has developed a keen sense for reading Ancap (not that it’s ever particularly <em>easy—</em>the ideology has a talent for acting) and right now, beneath the dramatic wording, the sentiment seems <em>real.</em></p><p>“You are...happy?” Commie squints harder. Ignores the light aching kind of feeling that comes with Ancap’s smile. “Happy with my want to murder Robinhood?”</p><p>Ancap strides over and leans over Commie’s shoulder. Commie doesn’t lean away. A few months ago, he would’ve.</p><p>A small frown pulls over Ancap’s face, for just a moment. Just a small moment. “Hmm.”</p><p>“Absolute bullshit, even you agree, да?”</p><p>“Well,” Ancap says, and pulls back like he’s considering. “Not <em>exactly</em>. There is valid reason that they would halt buying. Liquidity issues. It isn’t <em>necessarily</em> a conspirac—”</p><p>“You’re on <em>their</em> side?” Commie asks, incredulously. But why is he surprised? Ancap has never been anything even close to a decent person, no matter how relatively nice his presence has been recently. “You’re <em>really</em> defending Wall Street and hedge funds and Robinhood? You—”</p><p>“Of course not!” Ancap interrupts, sounding genuinely offended. “Wall Street dug themselves into this! And Robinhood—if they have liquidity issues then its their own fault, and even if they don’t, then they should still go under for how <em>terribly</em> they’ve handled their public relations. You think I would <em>ever</em> defend someone that failed in the free market? No! Unlike every other quadrant, <em>I </em>have some notion of personal responsibility.”</p><p>Again, he seems genuine. Absolutely baffling.</p><p>Commie frowns at him. “So you...<em>weren’t</em> one of the ones shorting Gamestop?”</p><p>Ancap laughs at his face, keeps laughing for something like ten seconds. He pats Commie on the back. “Hah! Good one, Red. Of <em>course</em> I shorted Gamestop! What do you take me for? The difference is that <em>I</em> pulled out before it was shorted over %100. <em>I</em>, in my brilliance, can recognize a recipe for disaster. And then I bought in <em>proper</em> when the stock started shooting up!”</p><p>“Right right,” Commie says, sarcastically. “Go on with that narcissism. Never tires to hear.”</p><p>“I knew someone would appreciate my genius!”</p><p>“Very genius, great at exploiting people for profit and squeezing out every possible bit of money.”</p><p>“I do try!”</p><p>“That was not compliment.” He pauses, purses his lips, looks at Ancap hesitantly. Ancap is still beaming at him. Well—that he can tell. The capitalists expressions are always hard to decipher behind those stupid glasses. “So you are...against Wall Street?”</p><p>“Sure.” Ancap casually leans against the railing just a bit to Commie’s left. “It <em>is</em> rather pathetic that they’re claiming this as anything but their own fault, after all. I have no sympathy for failures.”</p><p>That cold disdain is the same sentiment that makes Ancap disregard the life of homeless. But that aside... “So we are...upset at same people.”</p><p>“I suppose!” Ancap agrees, then tilts his head a bit. “That said, the only reason I’m not selling is PR.”</p><p>Commie sighs. “Typical.”</p><p>The other just smiles lazily. “It’s PR with the added bonus of sticking it to government bitches! What’s not to like?”</p><p>“<em>You</em> are government bitch. Capitalism always starts using state to benefit big corporations.”</p><p>Ancap gasps. “You wound me! That’s <em>authoritarian</em> capitalism! <em>I</em> am the furthest form of libertarian capitalism! Nothing like those authrights-in-disguise who proclaim to love the free market but turn away from her at the slightest disagreement. You know, I agree with you. That’s why there shouldn’t be any state at all!” Ancap pauses. “That said, I wouldn’t mind being your bitch.”</p><p>Commie grimaces. “As if. I want your head on pike.”</p><p>“So violent! We’re on the same side right now, you know. Lets do things together! What are you doing...” Ancap peers closer at the circular table. There isn’t much. Just a book, Commie’s laptop, and a handmade salad. “...Eating weeds?What is this, Soviet Russia?”</p><p>Commie scowls at him. “My salad is perfectly well. Dandelions are very nutrient dense.”</p><p>Ancap pats his shoulder condescendingly. “Don’t worry, Red, we’ll get you some real food eventually.”</p><p>“It <em>is</em> real food!” Why does he even care what Ancap thinks about his food? He never has before. How aggravating. “You try! I even made dressing.”</p><p>The capitalist hums. “Will you pay me?”</p><p>This is one part of what Commie hates about him. Everything has to be a <em>transaction</em>. It can’t be simple. Can’t just be mutual enjoyment of company. Can’t just be doing nice things for each other for the sake of it.</p><p>(Commie might let Ancap do it—that. He...can imagine it with Ancap. Doesn’t <em>want</em> it with Ancap, because he’ll never want it with anyone. But Ancap is respectful of boundaries, even if he doesn't like them. He has been nice lately, and there’s a feelings creeping into Commie’s chest a consideration, a pining, and if they established a mutual kind of care—</p><p>That is pretty unrealistic, though. With Ancap, it would be one and done. And when has Commie ever been anything but a realist?)</p><p>“...Sure,” Commie says, “pay you. Now eat salad.”</p><p>Ancap pauses. “I didn’t expect you’d actually agree. Alright.”</p><p>Commie grins and forks a bite. Ancap gives him a weird look, but eats the bites. His jaw stills, and his whole face screws up, and he looks physically pained when he swallows down. Ancap grabs for the water and spits the remaining off the side of the balcony. “Oh Rand that was <em>vile</em>. Red, was that dressing pure oil and vinegar?”</p><p>Commie—Commie laughs. Ancap looks absolutely indignant. It’s <em>hilarious. </em>“Salt, too! Also,” he’s still grinning, “I’m only paying you one cent.”</p><p>“<em>WHAT!?</em>” Ancap cries. “No! You can’t just—”</p><p>“Find loophole in agreement?”</p><p>Ancap sniffs. “You’re so mean. I want to punch you.”</p><p>Commie hums. “Then do it. Punch me.”</p><p>“But my NAP!”</p><p>Isn’t that adorable? Ancap and his precious NAP. It’s almost cute the way he clings to it as if that would ever stop anyone—including himself. Ancap has nothing barred on psychological harm.</p><p>“Tell you what,” Commie says, and grins, feeling inexplicably playful, “I’ll aggress first.”</p><p>“What?” Ancap asks, “Wait—!”</p><p>But Commie is already out of his seat and trapping Ancap between him and the railing. What to do? Hmm. The glasses. Those stupid glasses. Commie reaches out a hand and—takes Ancap’s glasses off.</p><p>The capitalists eyes are blown wide, iris a radioactive shade of violet, pupil a bit-coin gold. The center is engraved with a bright green money symbol. Of course they’re like that. And for all reasons, Commie should hate those eyes, so representative of what Commie hates, but—</p><p>They’re Ancap’s eyes, and that makes them a little beautiful. The other ideology’s gaze is darting all around, is settling on Commie’s face.</p><p>“Stealing private property is against NAP, да? Punch me.”</p><p>“Jeez,” Ancap mutters, eyes flicking away. “What’s up with you?”</p><p>He snatches back the glasses, pauses, then uppercuts Commie to the jaw. He doesn’t stop there, though, next is a knee to the stomach, and after that it’s a kick to the legs. Commie doesn't really resist, just makes sure that the fall doesn't hit his head against the ground. A chair goes clattering.</p><p>Commie grins up at him. Ancap is straddling him.</p><p>“Nice feeling?”</p><p>Ancap slips the glasses back on his face and tilts his head in consideration. “I entirely prefer economic warfare, but...yeah that was satisfying. You’re face is almost as punchable as it is pretty.”</p><p><em>Pretty</em>. Commie knows he doesn’t mean it as anything more, but his stomach flutters regardless.</p><p><em>Don’t flirt with me when you don’t mean it</em>, he kind of wants to say, but instead he sits up, circles his hand around the back of Ancap’s head, and presses his head into his chest. Not strongly. Lightly. Because they are still only playing.</p><p>Footsteps from inside. “Hey Ancap—” stop. Commie glances at the balcony’s open glass sliding doors. Nazi is staring. “Oh what the <em>fuck</em>. I’m surrounded by degenerates. Betrayed by my own axis-mates. Cease this DISGUSTING HOMOSEXUAL DEGENERATIVE <em>FAGGOTRY</em> OR—”</p><p>“SHUT UP NAZI!” Ancom yells from inside. “Who cares is they’re homosexual degenerates! Leave them be with their balcony kissing or whatever they’re doing. Actually, what <em>are</em> they doing?”</p><p>Ancap shakes Commie’s hold away and gasps with appropriate drama. “Me? Being <em>lovey</em> with someone? Never! I have one true love and she’s the free market!”</p><p>Commie’s chest stings with something sharp and aching. He presses his teeth together, doesn’t speak, and makes sure none of it shows on his face.</p><p>Nazi looks like he’s going to have an aneurysm. “Screw this.” He slams the door closed, but the sounds of his and Ancom’s ensuing fight carry easily though the glass.</p><p>Commie stares at Ancap. Ancap returns to his feet. Commie matches the movement. Clears his throat, but isn’t sure what to say.</p><p>“...Just to be clear,” he manages, “this isn’t like that. And I have—no expectations, of you, of course. Returning my affections.”</p><p>Ancap hums, leans back against the railing, expression smooth, eyes back behind the glasses. What is he looking at? What is he thinking? “I <em>do</em> like your company sometimes. I wouldn’t mind with you if I had you in bed.”</p><p>“That is transactional.”</p><p>Ancap shrugs. “Your loss! I would put myself as <em>quite</em> a catch. I’ll never understand how you don’t pursue everything that you want.”</p><p>Commie pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes close. What did he expect, really. For someone so adept with people, Ancap can be so <em>careless</em>. It isn’t surprising.</p><p>The <em>surprising </em>thing, is that Commie also wants to <em>spend time</em> with him. Wants to kiss his hair. The problem is that Ancap lets him take refuge in his room, respects his boundaries even if he doesn’t like them, gets so adorably excited when talking about the stock market, he’s just—</p><p>“...Red?” Ancap pokes his arm. Lightly.</p><p>Commie startles back to the present. “да?”</p><p>The capitalist huffs and puffs up a little. “You weren’t listening? I was betting twenty Ancom breaking something first.”</p><p>“Be—”</p><p>A crash from inside. Ancom screeches. “<em>THAT HIT THE TV YOU FUCKER!”</em></p><p>Commie feels embarrassment by association with both of them. “You know, we have...much difference, but at least we are not that.”</p><p>Ancap snickers. “Imagine being that obsessed over something as <em>petty</em> as identity.”</p><p>“Not even important kind of identity,” Commie agrees, “they are all about ethnic and sexual and similar. Absolutely unimportant. Ancom gives me despair and headaches.”</p><p>“They’re both useful,” the capitalist says, “they both divide people into demographics that are easier to market to, but...yeah. Nazi is <em>horrible</em> PR. And, he’s only the tiniest bit better at economics than Ancom.”</p><p>“They’re both shit with economy.”</p><p>Ancap extends a hand and smiles crookedly. “Solidarity in not caring about personal identity?”</p><p>Commie slips his hand around Ancap’s. His hand is smooth and soft and bourgeoisie. “да.”</p><p>The capitalist hums, twists himself around and steps backward, so that his back is pressed against the side of Commie’s chest. Their hands are still linked. Something close to a sweetheart position.</p><p>“I would toast champagne to that, partner.”</p><p>“I have vodka,” Commie says, and hesitates, “...comrade.”</p><p>A pause. Ancap laughs. “Ridiculous! I don’t drink poor people alcohol.”</p><p>Ancap is the antithesis of everything Commie stands for. He’s arrogant, manipulative, self-centered, and <em>hypocritical</em>. He goes on about <em>don’t tread on me</em> and never stops even a moment to glance at his bloodied shoes, never pays heed to the starving on his doorstep. Ancap sprinkles gold flakes in his coffee just because he <em>can</em>. Commie wants to cut off Ancap’s head and use the body as fertilizer, wants to snatch all that ill-earned wealth, wants too—</p><p>the <em>problem</em>, Commie decides, is that, despite it all, he <em>likes</em> him.</p><p>“Never had vodka? Terrible. We’ll have to change that.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This one was hard. Probably the hardest that I’ve written in this fandom. It took forever to write. Ancap is hard for me. I’ve never written a shipfic with an aro and an ace. Did commie’s feelings in the last scene feel forced? This took a while to stitch together. I'm not sure how it turned out.</p><p>That aside, I hope it was enjoyable! Per usual, I really, really do appreciate comments! Don't hesitate &lt;3 My validation well runs dry easily haha</p></blockquote></div></div>
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